


Changeful and Iridescent Fires

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [33]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Theatre, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27928690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Out on their first patrol together, Serrit and Gweld and their companions encounter a nest of bruxae and a very unusual bit of traveling theater.
Relationships: Gweld/Serrit (The Witcher)
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 136
Kudos: 1721





	Changeful and Iridescent Fires

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for secondhand embarrassment.

Serrit dumps the bruxa head she’s carrying on top of the little heap they’ve made - it was a good-sized nest of bruxae, and she’s extremely pleased by how efficiently their patrol team worked together, like well-oiled clockwork - and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest and letting Gweld handle talking to the alderman. Her Wolf grins at the rather startled man, as amiable and reassuring as a Witcher can be.

“This is all of them; your people should be safe to go into the forest again. Well, aside from wolves and bears and such, naturally.”

“Such dangers as that, milord, we know how to avoid,” the alderman says, starting to smile. “Thank you, thank you all - will you accept our hospitality for the night? Paulina at the inn makes a marvelous rabbit pie, and our ale is second to none - and we have entertainment, too! The players will be performing! Please say you will stay and eat with us, milords, milady!”

Serrit’s not comfortable with honorific titles, as a general rule, but she has to admit being called ‘milady’ - being recognized _as_ a woman - is kind of nice.

“We’d be pleased and honored to accept your hospitality,” Gweld says smoothly. This is part of their duties, too, after all: being seen, being sociable, so that the people of the Wolf’s lands learn to trust Witchers instead of fearing them.

The alderman beams and ushers them towards the inn, and not ten minutes later, Serrit is settled on the broad inn porch in a startlingly comfortable chair, with a mug of what actually _is_ very good ale - she’ll have to mention this place to Jan, maybe the keep could buy a few barrels - and the tantalizing smells of rabbit pie and roasted vegetables filling the air. Gweld, the ridiculous puppy, has sat down at her feet, leaning back against her legs, and is talking quite seriously to a child younger than even the youngest trainees, who is babbling happily in return and poking curiously at the studs on Gweld’s armor. Ealdred is listening gravely to the alderman, who is explaining something about trade routes and the various tensions and alliances between the villages in this corner of Kaedwen. Gaetan, Cat that he is, has shinned up the side of the building and is perched on the porch’s roof, grinning down at the children who have gathered below him and are shouting up suggestions for tricks he could do - he’s already done a handstand right on the edge of the roof, and is slowly lowering himself into a truly unlikely backbend. Serrit’s learned a lot about flexibility since she started training with the Cats sometimes.

The rest of the town’s population are slowly starting to trickle in from shops and houses and fields, some of them taking the tables at the inn, others spreading blankets on the village green. There’s a sort of festival atmosphere, and Serrit _still_ isn’t used to the Witchers being _included_ in such merriment, but the townsfolk keep grinning at them, and one intrepid young lady brings over a set of flower crowns with a hopeful look. Gweld, of course, is delighted to don one, the blue flowers bright against his red hair; Gaetan reaches down from the roof for a wreath of shocking pink blooms; Ealdred bows over the girl’s hand like she’s a noble, leaving her blushing and giggling as he settles a yellow circlet onto his hair.

Serrit sighs, and takes the wreath of delicate white flowers when the girl offers it, and puts it gingerly atop her head. “It looks good on you, milady,” the girl says, giving Serrit a hesitant smile.

“Thank you,” Serrit says awkwardly. Gweld tips his head back against her knee and beams up at her.

“It _does_ look fine,” he says. “Will you show me how to make those, lass?”

“I’d be honored, milord,” the girl says, and scampers off to gather more flowers. Serrit glowers at Gweld.

“I’m not going to wear these regularly.”

“Maybe _I_ want to wear them,” Gweld says, batting his eyelashes at her. “I think it makes me look dashing, don’t you?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Serrit says, but she also reaches down to straighten the crown a bit, making sure it won’t slip from Gweld’s hair. It _does_ look good on him. He’s sweet enough for flowers.

“Yep,” Gweld says, sounding extremely smug indeed.

The girl comes back with an armload of flowers and sits down on the ground beside Gweld, spreading her skirts out to make a sort of basket for her flowers, and the inn’s serving lad comes out with a tray of rabbit pies and roasted vegetables and good dark bread, with the innkeeper behind him bringing refills for the ale, and Serrit realizes that she’s...comfortable, actually. _Happy_ , even, to be here among people who are pleased to have her, with her lover beside her, good food and better ale and the quiet satisfaction of having slain some monsters which truly deserved it.

She’s most of the way through the rabbit pie, and Gweld has absolutely failed to make a flower crown twice in a row but is making much better progress on his third try, while the girl giggles and attempts to give useful advice, when a man in clothing even more flamboyant than the bard’s gets up on the stage in the middle of the village green and spreads his arms wide. There are foot-long fringes on his sleeves. Up on the roof, Gaetan makes a quiet sound that, in Kaer Morhen, would presage a pounce - but they are all too well-disciplined to do such a thing out in the world.

“My friends! And honored Witchers!” the man cries, flourishing his arms to make the fringes dance. “For your delight, this marvelous night, the Amazing Marcel - that is myself - and the Traveling Troubadours will perform _The Wandering Witcher and the Werewolf!_ ”

The townspeople cheer. Serrit exchanges an incredulous glance with Ealdred. There are _plays_ about Witchers now?

Hilariously inaccurate plays, no less. The actor playing the titular wandering Witcher, wearing stage armor that would never stop a real blade, declaims a short piece about how heroic and honorable all Witchers are, and yet how lonely he is, far from his friends and family and without a true love to call his own. (“ _Family?”_ Serrit mouths to Ealdred, who shrugs eloquently. Sure, Serrit considers her Schoolmates her brothers, but they’re not family the way humans think of it, she’s pretty certain of that.)

The “Witcher” marches along the stage, in front of a backdrop of painted trees, until as he reaches the other side, a young woman in a torn dress faints dramatically out onto the stage; the “Witcher” catches her, of course, and exclaims in horror over her injuries.

Serrit is mildly impressed by the quality of whatever they’re using for fake blood, actually. It doesn’t smell like blood, but it _looks_ almost real.

The woman “wakes” and sees the “Witcher,” and instead of screaming or fainting again - the most common responses Serrit has encountered, when a human wakes unexpectedly in a Witcher’s arms - she exclaims in joy. The “Witcher” tends her wounds by dabbing at them with a bit of cloth and tying bandages on that will fall off in minutes, if Serrit is any judge, but then again, they’re not real injuries; still, no Witcher would ever leave training without learning to do a _much_ better job than that. Then the woman explains that she was lost in the forest - why _anyone_ would be wandering around a forest in such an impractical gown, Serrit can’t imagine - and was set upon by a terrifying creature, which pursued her relentlessly, and which she only barely managed to escape.

Gaetan ducks his head down from the roof, flower crown improbably still attached, and catches Serrit’s eye to give her an incredulous look. A woman wearing _those_ shoes, escaping a werewolf in the middle of a forest? Not unless she’s also a mage!

The “Witcher” apparently sees nothing bizarre about this, though, and pledges to slay the monster before it can do the woman further harm. On cue, a howl sounds from offstage.

Gweld stuffs his fist against his mouth to muffle his giggles. It’s a very, very bad howl, even granting that it’s coming from a human throat. Serrit’s heard the Wolf Witchers howling; they’re _much_ better at it than whoever is attempting to sound like a werewolf.

The “Witcher” rises and draws a sword as the woman “faints” again, apparently with fear. Serrit eyes the sword and shakes her head. It’s shiny, yes, but whatever it’s made of, it sure as hell isn’t steel - and it’s _definitely_ not silvered, nor does it seem to have an edge sharp enough to cut _butter_ , much less flesh. Though perhaps it’s safer if the fake swords are as dull as wood.

 _Much_ safer, she decides a moment later, as the “werewolf” rushes out onto the stage and attacks the “Witcher.” The werewolf costume appears to be made of a couple of old wolf pelts sewn together, with extra-large claws and teeth sewn on, and Serrit is mildly impressed by the acrobatics the actor manages while wearing the unwieldy thing. He and the “Witcher” cavort all over the stage, clawing and striking at each other with occasional pauses for the “Witcher” to cry things like, “Foul beast, I shall destroy you that innocents may live in peace!” and the “werewolf” to howl, badly but impressively loudly.

Serrit has never in her life declaimed _anything_ in the middle of a fight. That’s a great way to get killed. Even Wolves and Griffins aren’t foolish enough to do that.

Eventually, of course, after several “close calls” - Serrit is mostly impressed by the contortions the actors go through in order to make it appear that the “werewolf’s” blunt claws or the “Witcher’s” dull sword can actually do any harm at all except as clubs - the “werewolf” appears to notice the woman, who has recovered from her faint and is huddling against the backdrop, hand pressed to her mouth. He turns his back on the “Witcher” and prepares to leap at her, and the “Witcher” flings himself into an actually quite remarkable diving roll to place himself between “werewolf” and woman. The “werewolf” leaps, and “impales” himself on the dull sword, knocking the “Witcher” to the ground. The “werewolf” staggers about a bit, howling in mock agony, before he collapses with a last whimper and goes limp.

The woman flings herself down beside the “Witcher,” apparently weeping over his fate. Serrit muffles a snort. Back when she was on the Path, if a Witcher died saving someone, the lucky victim usually thanked the gods they wouldn’t have to pay up, and went on their way without any hesitation.

The “Witcher” rouses to the sound of the woman’s weeping, and she exclaims with joy, and flings herself into his arms. The “Witcher” rises to his feet and clasps her close, dipping her backwards and kissing her thoroughly - _that_ , Serrit notes, they aren’t faking at all.

Apparently the “Witcher” is a very good kisser, because the woman then begs that she be allowed to come with the “Witcher,” to be his companion always, and for some inexplicable reason, he agrees. They walk offstage together, hand in hand.

Serrit thinks that’s the end of it, but after a moment’s bustle - the “werewolf” is carried offstage by two people in dark clothing, while the backdrop of painted trees is somehow rolled up to reveal one of painted stone - they emerge onstage again, the woman now without her bandages or fake blood, but clinging to the “Witcher’s” hand nervously. A man in another set of very unconvincing armor and a truly appalling white wig emerges onto the other side of the stage and crosses his arms over his chest, glowering.

The “Witcher” brings the woman forward, and they both fall onto their knees before the other man. The “Witcher” cries, “My lord! Mighty conqueror! This is my lady and my love, for whom I have slain monsters and mastered endless perils! I beg you, allow her to remain here, in the safety of our stronghold!”

Holy fucking shit, that’s supposed to be the _White Wolf_. Serrit crams her own knuckles into her mouth and bites down to muffle a guffaw. Oh _fuck_ , she’s going to tell her brothers about this as soon as she gets back to Kaer Morhen, this is _priceless_.

And it gets _better_. The “White Wolf” glowers even harder, and makes a _speech_ about how Kaer Morhen is a sanctuary, seat of his power and sacred to his clan. ( _“Clan?”_ Gweld whispers past the fist still crammed against his lips.) Only those who have proven their loyalty, the “White Wolf” continues, may set foot upon its sacred stones!

( _“Sacred?”_ Ealdred mouths. Serrit shrugs minutely; she has no idea where they’re getting that either. Also, the idea of the White Wolf making a speech like this is so utterly baffling as to be actively incomprehensible. He doesn’t _make_ speeches. Even the one he gave back at the very beginning of this whole mad venture, to convince them all to join his quest to take on the human monsters of the world, was more a short, well-phrased but extremely curt argument than anything else.)

And then, gloriously, the Amazing Marcel himself comes mincing onto the stage and takes the “White Wolf’s” arm, batting his eyelashes up at the other man and simpering. “Oh, my dearest, most magnificent love,” he gushes, “you are too wise, too noble, too _good_ to stand in the way of such true affection as these two have shown!”

He’s supposed to be _Jaskier_ , Serrit thinks, staring in blank astonishment at the stage. And apparently these performers think Jaskier has managed to wind the White Wolf around his finger by being...some sort of parody of a succubus, or one of the irritating noble idiots who think that lying through their teeth while looking adoring will win a Witcher’s affection. Well, the players also think fainting at a Witcher’s feet and weeping a lot is a good way to convince that Witcher to love you, so...apparently no one has ever told them what _actually_ appeals to Witchers.

Eskel said it best, really: beauty and courage and talent together are Witcher catmint. The White Wolf would never have looked twice at the songbird if he hadn’t proven to be as skillful and as brave as he is pretty.

“For you, my dainty one, anything,” the “White Wolf” says.

( _“Dainty!”_ squeaks Gweld, and falls over as he attempts to muffle his laughter. Serrit is having a hard time herself: the songbird is a lot of things, but dainty sure as hell isn’t one of them.)

“Rise then,” the “White Wolf” continues, “you and your lady love, and be welcome in my stronghold until the end of days!”

The “Witcher” and the woman rise and kiss again, and apparently that really _is_ the end of it, as they turn from their kissing to join hands with the “White Wolf” and the Amazing Marcel, and the “werewolf” comes trotting onstage, and they all bow. The townsfolk applaud furiously. Ealdred taps his hands together politely, and Gweld manages to uncurl long enough to clap. Serrit drains her mug and sits back, shaking her head in wonder. Yes, alright, that was...really not very good, and utterly unconnected to anything even resembling reality, but...

She’s never seen a play with the Witcher as the hero before.

“What did you think of it?” the flower-crown girl asks Gweld eagerly. “Weren’t they _amazing?_ ”

“I have never seen anything quite like that before,” Gweld says, in an impressive display of telling the absolute truth while lying through his teeth. “I will _definitely_ be telling the White Wolf and his Consort all about it.”

“Do you _know_ them?” the girl gasps.

Gweld taps his medallion. “I’m a Wolf Witcher - actually I’m the same age the White Wolf is, and we trained together. And I count Jaskier a friend, and a good one too.”

“Oh!” the girl says, and hops to her feet, tugging at Gweld’s hand. “You have to come and tell the players! They’ll want to meet you, I’m sure of it!”

Gweld follows her, casting a look over his shoulder at Serrit as if to beg her to rescue him. Serrit snorts and grins, lounging back in her chair as ostentatiously as she can. He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out of it. Gweld sticks his tongue out at her and winks before falling into step beside the girl, who leads him over to the little crowd of townsfolk surrounding the actors and shouting praise.

Gaetan drops down off the roof and comes over to lean against Serrit’s chair, still wearing his flower crown at a jaunty angle. “That was hilariously bad,” he murmurs, too quietly for human ears to catch.

Serrit nods. “It was,” she agrees. “But - did you ever think you’d see a Witcher _hero_ , kitty?”

“Huh,” Gaetan says, frowning a little and thumping her shoulder for the nickname. “Come to think of it, no.” He makes a thoughtful little noise. “Fought the monster, got the girl - guess that _is_ new. All the plays I ever saw with Witchers in ‘em, back before, the Witcher got killed.”

“Yeah,” Serrit says. “Woulda been a knight, or a lordling, or sommat like that, as the hero.”

“Yeah,” Gaetan agrees. “Huh.”

“Gonna have Gweld tell the songbird to get one of his friends to write better stories, though,” Serrit adds. “That was just _painful_.”

Gaetan chuckles, and then someone hops up on the stage with a hurdy-gurdy and a girl with flowers braided into her hair comes over and asks Gaetan if he’ll dance with her, and Serrit gives him a shove to send him on his way. Another daring lass claims Ealdred, and Gweld is already dancing with the flower-crown girl, picking her up and whirling her about to make her laugh, and Serrit settles back with another mug of ale and watches the merriment.

A whole town full of people who think Witchers are _heroes_ , and treat them as such.

She’s still not used to that, but it’s...sort of nice.

And with a little luck, the bard can get someone to write some better plays.

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful the-pallid-mask on tumblr suggested: "Idea: as Jaskiers songs get more popular there's going to be some acting troupes who are going to start doing Witcher stories/dramas. Some passing witcher catches a glance at one and is startled to see that the heroic lead is very clearly a witcher, and that the crowd is cheering at this. Could be funny if the play is a warlord drama with the "geralt" actor getting most of the lines/ and or a big heroic speech."
> 
> This resulted.
> 
> Many thanks to the-pallid-mask for the idea, to the glorious RoS13 for the beta, and to everyone who leaves comments and kudos, which give me immense joy. Please feel free to come say hello on tumblr or discord!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Changeful and Iridescent Fires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062990) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)




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